Detective (21 page)

170 Arthur Halley

nones's extensive criminal career
included assault, rape, and armed
robbery with violence.

Now, accompanied by an unknown
bearded male, he entered a yellow,
beat-up '78 Chevrolet and drove
away. The two detectives, in their
Florida P&L van, followed, with
Andrews at the wheel.

Quinones went directly to Highway
836, a busy expressway. There, after
heading west toward Miami
International Airport, he began
driving erratically, bumping several
cars in the rear an obvious attempt
to stop and rob them.

Watching, Thurston griped, "Shit!
I'd love to arrest those two
bastards."

Andrews nodded. "Yeah, well, maybe
we'll have to."

They faced a dilemma, both
detectives knew. Their mission was
to observe Quinones as a possible
serial killer, but if any of the
bumped cars stopped, the detectives
had a duty to protect their
occupants from danger. None of the
cars did stop, however, undoubtedly
because of the many police and media
warnings about that specific danger.

After a while, to the detectives'
relief, the bumping ceased and
Quinones appeared to have given up.

The yellow Chevy left the
expressway at Northwest 57th Avenue,
turned south into the western end of
Little Havana, and stopped at a
7-Eleven store, where the bearded
man got out. Quinones then drove on
alone to the south campus of
Miami-Dade Community College, at
Southwest 107th Avenue and 104th
Street. It was a long, tedious ride,
taking most of an hour, and Andrews,
still driving the undercover van,
dropped back as much as possible
without losing sight of the Chevy.

By now it was 8:30 P.M., and Quinones
stopped in the college parking lot
within sight of students walking to
and from evening classes. The
detectives saw some women students
abruptly turn their heads as they
passed Quinones's

DETECTIVE 171

car. Apparently he had called out,
though none of the women stopped.

Thurston leaned forward and
muttered, "This dude has assaults
and a rape on his sheet. You don't
think . . ."

As he spoke, Quifloneslefthis car
and began following a young blond
woman to another portion of the
parking lot.

"Let's go!" Thurston jumped from
the van, with Andrews behind.

Quifiones was within twenty feet of
the young woman when she reached her
car a red Honda jumped in, started
the engine, and pulled away.
Quifiones ran to his own car, still
unaware of the detectives, who were
also darting back to their van.

As the blond woman's car passed
Quifiones's, he drove out behind it.
The detectives were now following
both cars.

"Don't let that son of a bitch out
of your sight," Thurston warned. "If
this is our guy, we don't want
another corpse."

Andrews nodded. He was staying
closer to the yellow Chevy now,
reasoning that Quinones's attention
was focused on the red Honda ahead.
The three vehicles moved north on
Southwest 107th Avenue amid light
traffic until, without warning, the
Honda swung abruptly right onto
Southwest Eighth Street, the Tamiami
Trail. Quifiones, clearly not ready
for a turn, braked, skidded well
into the wide intersection, then
turned sharply to follow.

"She's on to the bastard," Thurston
said.

Quifiones's pursuit of the Honda
was further delayed by another car
about to turn out of Eighth Street.
He reversed a few feet more, then,
with tires squealing, made the right
turn. Andrews, who had held back
through the last block, followed.

172 Arthur Halley

Then, as traffic cleared, the
detectives saw the blond woman leave
her car, which was now in a parking
area of a high-rise apartment
complex. She walked quickly to the
lobby, using a key to open a main
doorway. Almost at once she was
inside, the door closed behind her.

Moments later, Quinones's yellow
Chevy pulled up near the Honda.
Andrews drove the van into the
parking lot and pulled into a space
where the detectives could both see
Quinones, still seated in his car,
and the apartment building directly
ahead. After a few minutes they saw
lights go on in one of the
lower-floor apartments, with the
blond woman clearly visible through
a window. Only for a moment, though.
Crossing the room, she pulled
draperies across the window.

"She knows he's out there," Thurston
said.

"Yeah, and he may have tailed her
before. Probably knows the
apartment."

Suddenly Thurston shouted, "Shit!
He's gone." While they had been
looking up at the window, Quinones
had left his car and moved to the
apartment building doorway, where he
was entering behind another figure.

Both detectives flung their van
doors open and raced to the door.
Andrews wrenched at it, but it was
securely closed. By now no one was
visible inside. Thurston immediately
started pressing buttons on the
residents' speaker system. "Police
officers!" he cried out. "We're
chasing a suspect. Open the front
door, please."

Many, he knew, would be
suspicious, but someone might . . .

Someone did. A loud buzz sounded.
Andrews called over, "It's open!"
and they both rushed in.

"What floor was she on?" Andrews
queried. "I'd say the third."

Thurston nodded. "Get up there!"

DETECTIVE 173

A hallway contained two elevators,
both closed. Andrews hit a call
button, then abruptly the doors of
one opened and an elderly woman
slowly emerged, with a Pekingese on
a leash. The dog seemed reluctant to
move. Thurston settled the matter by
picking it up and dumping it
outside. As the woman opened her
mouth to protest, both detectives
were already inside the elevator,
Andrews jabbing the third-floor
button, then a lower button to close
the doors. But the machinery was
unhurried; only after a pause, while
the two men fumed, did the doors
slide together.

At the third floor they hurried
out, turning right toward where they
judged they had seen the blond woman
through her window. But the corridor
was silent, and no door was open.
Thurston knocked at two doors
without response.

"Nothing here!" he pronounced. "Has
to be the fourth floor. Use the
stairs!" He headed for a doorway
marked FIRE EXIT, Andrews following. They
bounded up concrete steps, then
through another door, emerging on a
corridor matching the one below. A
few yards away an apartment door was
open, with part of the door
splintered. At the same moment two
loud blasts, clearly gunshots,
sounded through the apartment
doorway. As both detectives paused,
drawing their guns, they heard four
more shots in quick succession.

Thurston, his face set grimly,
moved against the wall on the same
side of the corridor as the open
door. Motioning Andrews to stay
behind him, he whispered, "I'll take
this one. Cover me."

Small sounds could be heard through
the open doorway light footsteps
briefly, then several indistinct
thuds while Thurston approached
carefully. Then, with gun extended,
he put his head cautiously around
the doorway. Almost at once he
lowered the gun and stepped inside.

174 Arthur Halley

Beyond a small hallway, in what
appeared to be a living room,
Quiflones was facedown on the floor,
unconscious, in a pool of blood. His
right arm was extended, a sharp-
edged, gleaming knife close by. It
was a pearl-handled switchblade,
Thurston noted. The woman, who
looked older than she had from a
distance, was seated on a circular
ottoman. She held a gun pointed
downward; her body was slumped, hair
a mess, face dazed.

Thurston approached her. Pointing
to the gun, he said, "I'm a police
officer. I'll take that." He
observed it was a .22 Cal Rohn
automatic pistol that held six
shots, the number he had heard
fired. Obediently she held the gun
out to him. Taking a pen from his
shirt pocket, he placed it in the
trigger guard, handling the weapon
so no contamination of fingerprints
would occur, and, for the time
being, put it on a table to the
side.

Andrews entered cautiously, then
went straight to Quiflones's body
and checked for vital signs. "He's
gone," he pronounced. Then, moving
the body slightly, he asked
Thurston, "Did you see this,
Charlie?" He pointed to the trousers
front, where the zipper was down and
Quiflones's penis protruded.

"No, but it figures." As the
detectives knew, rapists often
exposed themselves, believing the
sight would turn women on. Thurston
added, "Better get Fire-Rescue here
to confirm he's dead."

On his portable police radio,
Andrews transmitted,
"Nineteen-thirty-oge to dispatcher."

"QSK. "

"Send me Fire-Rescue to 7201
Tamiami Canal Road, apartment 421,
to check a possible forty-five. Also
send a two-man unit for crowd
control, and dispatch an ID unit,
too."

"QSL."

DETECTIVE 175

Within less than a minute,
approaching sirens could be heard
outside as uniform police and
Fire-Rescue medics responded to the
call. An ID team, though traveling
with less urgency, was undoubtedly
on the way.

Thurston made a radio call to
Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie, as head of
the special task force, informing
him of developments.

"I'm close by," Ainslie said. "Be
with you in minutes."

Andrews, meanwhile, had begun
crime-scene routine, making notes,
then questioning the woman, still
seated.

"Your name, miss, please?"

With an effort she seemed to
collect her thoughts, though her
hands were shaking. "Dulce Gomez."

She was single, she reported,
thirty-six years old, and lived in
this apartment. She had been in
Miami ten years. She was attractive,
Andrews thought, though with a
certain hardness to her.

She was employed by Southern Bell
as a phone-repair technician, Gomez
told him. In the evenings she
attended classes at Miami-Dade
Community College, where she was
majoring in telecommunications. "I
want to get a better job."

Thurston, who had joined them,
motioned toward Quinones's body. "Do
you know this man, Dulce? Had you
seen him before he followed you
today?"

She shuddered. "Never!"

"We've been watching him. It's
possible he might have done this
before without your knowing."

"Well . . . now you ask, couple of
times I did have a feeling someone
was..." She stopped, remembering.
"That pendejo sure knew the
apartment number, must have come
straight up."

176 Arthur Halley

Andrews prompted, "And broke down
the door?"

She nodded. "He stormed right in
like a crazed dog, his click hanging
out, and swinging a knife."

Thurston said, "And that's when you
shot him?"

"No. I didn't have the gun then,
so I gave him a karate kick. He
dropped the knife."

"You do karate?"

"Black belt. I let him have it to
the head and torso and he went down.
Then I got the gun and shot him."

"Where was the gun?"

"In another room. My bedroom, in a
drawer."

Thurston was startled. "You mean
you already had the guy down, but
you still got a gun and shot
him emptied it into him six shots?"

The woman hesitated. "Well, I
wanted the shit to stay down. He had
the knife and was wriggling around.
That's why, even after I shot him,
I kicked him in the head some."

It explained the sounds light
footsteps and thuds that both
detectives had heard while
approaching the apartment. Andrews
said, "But he wasn't wriggling after
you shot him."

Gomez shrugged. "I guess not. But
I was still pretty scared."

During the detectives'
questioning, the paramedics had
arrived; it took them only a few
seconds to confirm that Quifiones
was dead. And two uniform officers
were now on duty in the corridor
outside. They had sealed off apart-
ment 421 with yellow POLICE LINE tape and
were assuring a crowd of assembled
tenants: "All the excitement's over,
folks," and "Everything's being
taken care of."

Malcolm Ainslie had arrived in
time to hear the later stages of the
questions. Now he said carefully,
"Let's be clear about this, Ms.
Gomez. You had the man down be

DETECTIVE 177

cause you do karate, and he was still
on the ground when you got back and
put six bullets in him?"

"I already told you that."

"May I see your gun permit, please?"

For the first time the young woman
seemed uneasy. "I don't have one. My
boyfriend gave me the gun last
Christmas. It was under my tree,
gift-wrapped. I didn't think "

Thurston said softly as an aside,
"Guy's gotta be in the NRA. Only that
kind of mind would put a gun under a
Christmas tree."

Among police officers, who saw so
many deadly shootings and frequently
faced death themselves from easily
purchased assault weapons, the
National Rifle Association did not
rate highly.

Andrews asked, "What's your
boyfriend's name, Dulce?"

"Justo Ortega. Except he isn't my
boyfriend anymore."

Ainslie touched Brad Andrews's arm.
"This is getting complicated. I think
you should advise the lady of her
rights."

"I was thinking that, too,
Sergeant." Andrews faced the young
woman. "Dulce, there's a Miranda law.
Under it I have to advise you that
you do not have to talk to me or
answer questions. If you do talk from
this point on, it's possible
something you say might be taken down
and used as evidence "

Gomez said testily, "I know all
about my rights. None of it applies,
because I didn't ask that shithead to
break in, and what I did was
self-defense."